Eva yearned for the iceman the way a lothario yearns for absolution on his death bed. Every Tuesday, she would park herself by the window and wait for the familiar rumble of the ice truck. The truck usually arrived by the time Eva finished her second beer.
The driver was a tall kid, chiseled out of granite like a statue at a museum of fine art. He opened the back of the truck and using a pair of tongs, grabbed a huge block of ice.
Eva unbuttoned the top button of her cotton dress and set free the gifts that God had given her. She leaned out the window and screamed like she was at Ebbets Field.
"Hey iceman! You're late!"
"Hey lady," said the kid, never looking up. "I have a name."
Eva laughed and scurried to her front door. She took a deep breath and opened it.
Dan Farren is a writer living in California.
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